


Four Golden Memories

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Monster!Billy, Pre-Season/Series 03, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19343521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: Billy has three golden memories to keep him going before he makes it back to California, including a dream-like kiss from Steve Harrington. But dreams have no place in reality, and Billy will leave Hawkins as planned on the fourth July.He doesn't make it out in time.





	Four Golden Memories

**Author's Note:**

> I am not prepared for Season Three. And also I have never been more excited for anything in my life. And also I am very, very, very, not prepared.

**3rd July**

 

Billy is drunk. He tilts his head backwards and stares up at the stars, letting the thousands of tiny pin pricks blur and swirl together. There are colors in there somewhere: blues and purples he can't see out in California where the pollution is higher and you need to look out at the ocean to imagine a world bigger than yourself. 

Billy watches the stars spin and feels very small. 

A footstep lands somewhere behind him, the gentle slap of skin on concrete, and Steve's head appears to eclipse the stars. 

“Hargrove?” he asks, eyes wide and brow furrowed. “What the hell are you doing out here by my pool?”

Billy grins. One arm is draped casually across his stomach, fingers slid just below the line of his jeans because he's drunk and it feels good. The other arm lifts his cigarette to his lips. He takes a drag and blows the smoke upward until Steve's face is obscured. It's a shame. Such a pretty face. 

“Smoking,” he says, still grinning. “Want one?”

A range of emotions cross Steve's face: confusion, anger, caution. Then he sighs and drops to the ground beside Billy. 

“Yeah, gimme that.” 

Then he plucks the cigarette from Billy's mouth and takes a long, slow pull. 

Billy marks the way his lips close around the cigarette, filing it away in the back of his mind along with everything else Steve has ever done. His hand is still tucked into the front of his jeans, and his fingers twitch. They're nowhere near stroking his cock, which has begun to stir, but he can dream. 

In the distance, sirens blare through the otherwise silent night. Billy closes his eyes and laughs, the weight of his breath slicing through his gut, twinging the bruises hidden beneath his shirt. But you should see the other guy.

Steve cocks his head, turning to face the direction the sound is coming. After a moment, blue and red lights flicker across his face, the sirens so loud they’re deafening. The neighbors light turns on. A dog starts howling. Then the lights fade away.

“Are they looking for you?”

“Who’s to say?” Billy grins.

“Why are they looking for you?”

“Maybe they heard how good I am in the sack.”

Steve snorts, the sound somehow reluctant and genuine all in one. He leans back on one hand and, with the other, holds the cigarette out for Billy to take. “Come on, man. What did you do?”

Billy props himself up on his elbows and takes a drag of the cigarette while it’s still between Steve’s fingers. His lips brush against Steve’s knuckles, and it’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s ever done, riskier even than punching that cop tonight. But it’s also the best thing he’s ever done and he doesn’t move away until the smoke has filled his lungs and he has to either exhale or choke.

The stars shimmer in Steve’s eyes as he watches Billy, silent and unflinching, before taking the cigarette back for himself.

“I decked Officer Callahan in the face,” Billy says, watching the smoke hover between them, exhaling slowly. 

There’s no wind tonight, just a heavy, stagnant air that tells him a storm is coming.

“Jesus, Billy.”

Billy chokes a little, doubled over and coughing. When he regains his breath, he says, “Say that again.”

Steve frowns. “Say what?”

“My name.”

The smoke drifts a little further away, stirred by an invisible wind—perhaps a breath drawn too quick.

“Billy.” Steve’s voice is quiet.

Billy closes his eyes. “My name sounds good on your lips, pretty boy.”

This time he hears the hitch in Steve’s breath. When the breath finally exhales, after a pause several beats too long, he feels it on his skin.

“I’m getting outta this town tomorrow night,” Billy says without opening his eyes.

“Why?”

“Nothing for me here.”

In his mind, he hears his dad yelling, demanding. Hears the furious sound of furniture crashing as he searches for Billy’s hidden stash of money, the last vestiges of control slipping through his fingers as Billy tells him it’s all over. He won’t be what his dad wants him to be. Not anymore.

It was Max who called the police. She’s the only one still naive enough to think an officer of the law would ever choose Billy’s side.

“Was there ever?”

Billy opens his eyes to see the cigarette held out for him again. This time, he takes it with his hand, smokes the last of it, and grinds it out on the concrete between them. The yelling in his mind fades, replaced for the space of a heartbeat with the sound of laughter. Brown hair shining in the sun. A crooked smile. “No.”

Steve nods, turning back to the pool. Blue light glints off the surface, eclipsing the glow of starlight. It’s a relief; Billy doesn’t need any reminders of his buried dreams tonight. He needs cold, hard reality. He shouldn’t have come here at all.

“Things won’t be the same here without you,” Steve says.

Billy snorts. “No?”

“I might be able to actually relax at the pool without all the fucking girls crowding you there.”

The laughter bubbles out of him before he can stop it. “They’re wasting their time.”

Steve looks back at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh? The ladykiller vibe just an act, is it?”

“More like a cover.” Billy stares out into the night, not entirely sure why he’s being so honest except that by the time tomorrow comes he’ll be long gone, and for once his secret can’t hurt him. It’s a relief to finally say it out loud.

Clothing rustles as Steve shifts beside him, and somehow he’s closer than before. Billy’s heart thuds, because there’s no way Steve should have moved closer after that confession; he should be further away. Should be running. If he only knew the face that starred in Billy’s dreams, he wouldn’t be sitting here anymore, he’d be—

Steve’s mouth is warm against his own, his lips surprisingly soft and a little wet. His breath tastes like smoke, and Billy breathes it in, bringing a hand up to cradle Steve’s neck, to draw himself closer and drown in the impossibility of his forbidden dream come to life.

“I see the way you look at me,’ Steve says, lips brushing against Billy’s as he speaks. For a second, Billy’s heart races, panic overwhelming him on reflex like it always does when he thinks he’s been caught. Even though it doesn’t matter now. Then Steve says, “But don’t worry, I only see because I’m looking at you, too.”

Billy goes against every instinct in his body and pulls backwards, so he can get a better look at Steve’s face. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Steve to yell “psych” and knock him out. Not that it would be a very good psych. Not when Billy can still taste Steve on his lips and Steve’s breath sounds as ragged as his own.

“Is that right?” 

He manages to latch onto his usual cocky script, even if the tone is far from how it’s meant to sound. Even if the tone sounds more like he’s been thrown off the edge of a cliff and hasn’t yet hit the ground.

Steve’s brows twitch, drawing minutely closer together. “This feels like a fucking dream,” he says, laughing softly.

It’s the kind of line that would normally have Billy sneering, attacking and running, except that it’s so clear Steve is laughing at himself.

“It may as well be,” Billy says, bitterness overwhelming his voice as he thinks about leaving, and he leans back in before Steve can say anything else.

Before tonight, Billy had two good memories to sustain him: the memory of his mom’s kiss on his forehead as she whispered him goodnight, and the sound of waves crashing into the shore. Two golden memories. Now he has three.

Steve moans, pushing Billy down against the concrete and bracing himself with an arm either side of Billy’s chest.

The sirens circle back around, but this time they slow out the front of Steve’s house.

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance you walked here,” Steve asks drily, glancing up at the flickering blue and red lights. His hair falls down around his face, framing it, nearly tickling Billy’s skin.

“‘Fraid not.”

“Didn’t think so.” Steve sighs and pushes back.

Billy feels the loss in every nerve beneath his skin, electric heat suddenly muted. Steve stands up and runs a hand through his hair. Voices carry from the front of the house, sluggish in the still air.

“If you cut through the woods you’ll hit a lane,” Steve says, pointing to a thin track that runs along the back of the Harrington property. “You can double back around once they’re gone.” He studies Billy, gaze slow and thoughtful. “You shouldn’t be driving though.” He pauses, one beat, two. “Stay here tonight.”

Billy’s breath catches, but he doesn’t have time to reply because the voices are closer now. He runs.

By the time he makes it back around the front of the house, the police are long gone and so has Billy’s good mood. He nearly fucked up, nearly risked too much tonight because it’s one thing to think these sorts of things in the privacy of his own head, and another very different thing to act on them.

He ignores the light in the upper window, where he knows Steve’s bedroom is, and gets into his car. The rumble of the engine beneath him is familiar and grounding, and he tears out of the drive before Steve can convince him to stay.

  
  


**7th July**

 

Things change. Billy knows that better than most, and still he’s left reeling from everything he’s seen, everything he’s done. His skin doesn’t feel like his own, his thoughts are wrong, even his voice… 

He’ll never be able to hear himself speak again without also hearing that other voice with it. The demon voice.

He clenches the steering wheel and stares out at the blackness of the quarry, at the deep shadows that fill the night out here in Hawkins. After everything that happened, Billy feels like he should be afraid of the dark, but he isn’t. He’s only angry. Furious at himself for being so close to getting out of here and still not close enough. Furious that he’s no longer sure he’ll ever escape this place, not when everything that happened still lives in his head.

Headlights glint in his rearview mirror, and it doesn’t take long for him to recognize the BMW that pulls alongside him. A familiar anger stirs in his chest, anger at this  _ human  _ for getting in his way.

The anger isn’t his own, and Billy squeezes his eyes shut tight against it, against his own rage that stirs in response, and waits for Steve to fuck off. He’s had enough of anger. Even the thought of punching something does nothing to make him feel better anymore. All he can see is blood. All he can feel is fear.

A gentle knock thuds against the glass of his window, and he grimaces. Trust Harrington not to take a goddamn hint. He winds his window down instead of opening the door.

“What do you want?”

“You haven’t spoken to any of us since the hospital,” Steve says, and the accusation in his voice is almost enough to make Billy start fighting again.

“Why would I do that?” Billy grits out, that horrible echo underlying every word, even if it’s only in his head.

His eyes meet Steve’s, and for a moment he is cast back to just the other week when the world seemed caught in a strange bubble of its own making. Where everything was poised on the edge of something new, and someone knew his secret and didn’t hate him for it. 

His old secrets no longer seem to matter at all, and Billy has never felt more sober. Isn’t sure he will ever feel anything but sober again, no matter how much he tries to drown it all. 

A jolt of movement and discomfort snaps him out of his thoughts, and he realizes Steve has opened the door and yanked him to his feet.

“Because we were fucking worried,” Steve snaps, shoving him back against the car.

Steve’s hands fist in his shirt, and it should make Billy furious. It should make him want to fight, want to attack, want to win. But it doesn’t.

It makes him break.

He closes his eyes against the onslaught of  _ too much _ . Memories overtake his mind, not all of them bad. Many of them are his own, well before the monster, and he almost can’t tell the difference, there’s so much violence in all of them. Almost… except that the old memories, the ones that belonged to him, he enjoyed.

Billy can’t imagine enjoying that anymore. Even the remembered smell of blood makes him want to vomit. And he can’t fight it, he can’t fight this because fighting  _ leads to this. _

He closes his eyes and lets his knees give way until he’s sliding down the car to the ground, Steve’s hands still caught in his shirt so Steve has no choice but to let go or fall down with him.

Steve drops, and through the darkness of Billy’s still-closed eyes, he feels gentle hands move from his chest to his face, tracing lines on his skin and caressing him. There’s a wetness on his cheeks, and he’s beyond caring who sees.

“I nearly made it out of here, Harrington,” he murmurs, the words turning into laughter halfway through. Billy has never heard laughter sound so deranged. “I nearly got out.” 

Warm lips press against his, and he leans into it, letting that last golden memory resurface and take over his thoughts for as long as the madness will let it. That memory is untouchable. One golden memory right before everything changed, where Billy had hope and a kiss he could remember for the long journey from here to California. One dream-like night where Billy felt safe.

The memory is as untouchable as it is irretrievable. He’ll never have that again. He never had it to begin with; it was only ever an illusion.

“Billy.” Steve’s thoughts break through his downward spiral. His voice is gentle but insistent. “Billy, are you listening to me?”

“Nope.”

“Shithead.” 

There’s warmth there now. Warmth and what sounds like a smile. 

Billy opens his eyes to see Steve smiling at him like the last few days never happened. A strange sensation stirs in his chest, fluttering and weak. It feels like hope, but not the hope he had the other night. The other night was a bubble, a trance, a lie.

Steve’s smile is raw, the lines on his cheeks haggard like he hasn’t slept in days. He still bears gashes across his face, long cuts lined with blood. Billy can’t remember if they’re because of him or someone else.

“You did get out,” Steve says for possibly the third or fourth time. “You made it, Billy. You fought the monster in your head and you won.”

There is nothing trance-like about Steve’s voice. Loud noises still startle Billy, setting his teeth on edge and making his head pound. The sound of Steve’s voice, just a little too loud because Billy wasn’t listening to him, grates against Billy’s thoughts, scraping across tender flesh like the worst sort of hangover. It’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re not lying to me?”

Steve shakes his head, undeterred by the strangeness of the question. “I’m not lying to you, Billy.”

The ragged thing in his chest flares, harsh and erratic. His breath starts to stutter, and then suddenly he’s crying. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, the word grinding out from somewhere deep inside him. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

Steve holds him, and the world goes quiet. Trees rustle in a gentle breeze, an owl hoots. Starlight illuminates the center of their small clearing.

Billy lets Steve kiss him again. It’s slow at first, gentle like neither of them are brave enough to cross the final distance. Then Steve breaks, surging forward into Billy’s space as if they’re fighting again. His hands are rough, shoving Billy back so he loses his balance and falls sideways into the dirt. It’s so much; it’s so fucking much. Billy never thought he’d have this, even last week when Steve first kissed him, because since when does Billy deserve a dream? Nothing about Billy belongs in a dream. But this? The tender hiss of split lips and old wounds ground into the dirt beneath them? This he can have.

The pool of light from the open Camaro door spotlights them, shining on Steve like a fucking beacon, and Billy surrenders. The wet slide of their tongues slows down right when Billy would normally take it a step further. It becomes something languid and tender. He pulls back, unsure, but Steve chases him, and it’s better than a dream, better than the unearthly bubble of false hope he once had because this is  _ real.  _ Dirt grinds into his back, bruises hurt beneath Steve’s weight, and Billy feels alive for the first time since the monster took him.

“I got out,” he mutters against Steve’s lips, grinning when he feels Steve’s mouth curve into an answering smile, familiar and grounding. “I got out.”

“Yeah, man.”

Three golden memories become four, and maybe he doesn’t have to escape this town after all. Maybe he can leave all that he hates behind him without going anywhere at all.

Steve’s head appears above his, eclipsing the stars as he draws them into another kiss, and Billy feels bigger than the whole world.


End file.
